Adam

BY RAYMOND LUCZAK

As usual, the Bible got a lot of things wrong.
This is the true story of how we met.

The earth was a brittle crust.
Made of stalactite and stone, it had no heart.
The skies were dour with tears.
Sometimes lightning took bad photographs.

The rains that fell slithered DNA
into the baby cracks and flooded.
It would take millions of years
before the cracks would shift,
rub, open, and collapse.
Cells, dividing, propagated
the message: be hungry.
Be always hungry. Always!

The twitchy earth shifted again.
Then the rains stopped long
enough for the sun to welcome
the tiny gardens sprouting forth
from fissures. Chlorophyll became an art.

So did become the creatures
that mutated and multiplied.
Among them were men and women.
They were blind at first to each other
but learned to sniff each other.
It was pure survival in those days.

Adam was the first one to feel:
“I need more than just any food that comes my way.”
He was furry, tall, and strong.
He had a square jaw and melancholic eyes.
He couldn’t understand why he was so unhappy.
He was the first man to cry tears.
Suddenly crying wasn’t limited to babies.
Everyone in his tribe laughed at him.

Then he met a woman named Eve.
We’ve all heard this story before,
how it ended: a snake promised her
the full array of sexual power. But
the men who wrote the Bible left out
one crucial detail. The truth was:
Eve learned procreation wasn’t necessary.
She left Adam for other men. He was a lousy lay anyway.

He loved her. Truly did. He was the first man
to experience heartbreak. He had no words
for what he’d felt for her. It was all gestures and grunts.
His pain was bottomless as a volcano.

I overheard his hoarse sobs. I saw into his soul
thoughts of jumping off a cliff and impaling himself
like a spear goring a mammoth.

I soared down from above. He was dumbstruck
by the shimmering feathers of my wings,
the perfect strings of my lyre.
I sang the first songs heard on earth.

I did not sing of tribal revenge.
I did not sing of hunting animals.
I did not sing of sacrifices before gods.

Instead I sang of comfort, of a lazy summer day,
of sleeping together and listening to the other
breathe. He sat on a boulder and stared up at me.
It was so easy to make him laugh!

His tears of desolate lava turned into spring rains.
Roses all around us bloomed and wafted
as I floated and played before him. That he didn’t know
my language didn’t matter. He would
remember them in dreams and learn
to speak. He would become the first storyteller.

My wings finally tired, I coasted to the ground
in front of him. I saw the lonesomeness, the ache
in his eyes. I leaned down and kissed him.
I rubbed my beard all over his chest.
I nibbled at his nipples. I inhaled the musk
from his armpits. I darted my tongue
in and out of his mouth, his ears.
My fingers savored each contour of his body.
I taught him what else the tongue could do,
and where else the cock could go.

He cried out loud to me, the trees, the heavens.
He ejaculated not once or twice, but many times.
There was a reason why he had been a lousy lay.
All he needed was a man, not a woman.
He was the first homosexual.

Eve returned when she heard from afar
his cries of utter satisfaction. She found us
rocking in the final throes of knowledge
under the big tree where the snake had met her.
She was horrified that another man could be a better fuck
than her. Hurt, she began telling their children
stories about unnatural homosexual abominations,
how ugly and inadequate their bodies looked,
what a burden they were to raise.

She stopped fucking other men and laced up
fig leaves to hide her body. She changed
her story of the snake. The men who lusted
for control could now write a new history.
Stories weren’t campfire entertainment anymore.
Who knew shame could be so easily inherited,
and so readily manipulated for power?

Together Adam and I walk hand in hand,
our cocks and balls swaying freely,
through bedrooms and anywhere else
men make love. When they quake
full of exclamations and ejaculations,
we rewrite history all over again.